"Greta," said Hugh Ritson, in a low tone of indescribable pathos, "which of these men is your husband?"
Counsel repeated the question in form.
Greta had slowly raised her eyes from the ground until they reached the convict's face. Then in an instant, in a flash of light, with the quick cry of a startled bird, she flung herself on his neck. Her fair head dropped on the frieze of the convict's jacket, and her sobs were all that broke the silence.
Hugh Ritson's emotion surged in his throat, but he stood quietly at the table. Only his slight figure swayed a little and his face quivered. His work was not yet done.
"This is the answer of nature," he said quietly.
Hugh Ritson was put into the witness-box, and in a voice that was full and strong, and that penetrated every corner of the court, he identified the convict as his brother, Paul Ritson.
Counsel for the defense had seemed to be stunned. Recovering himself, he tried to smile, and said:
"After this melodramatic interlude, perhaps I may be allowed to ask our new witness a few questions. Did you, at the Central Criminal Court, held at the Old Bailey in 1875, swear that the person who stands here in the dress of a convict was not Paul Ritson?"
"I did."
"Now for my second question. Did you also swear that the defendant was your brother, and therefore not Paul Drayton."